1. I’ve heard the lark’s cry thrill the sky o’er the meadows of Lusk, And the first joyous gush of the thrush from Adare’s April wood, At thy lone music’s spell, Philomel, magic stricken I’ve stood, When in Espan a-far star on star trembled out of the dusk. 2. Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the darkening lake As the rose’s rapt sigh must die when the zephyr is stilled; In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds ever trilled, But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall immortally wake.]…
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